


The Trojan Horse

by EllaStorm



Category: The Borgias (Showtime TV)
Genre: Alfonso is a pillock in this one, F/M, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 03, altered history, another fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 11:55:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18072956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllaStorm/pseuds/EllaStorm
Summary: Cesare wants all of Italy - and he's on the cusp of having it. But what would Italy be without Lucrezia?





	The Trojan Horse

**Author's Note:**

> I found this today, in the "unposted" section of my story data, and rather than have it turn to dust there, I decided to post it (after like...a year).
> 
> You might see this as a companion piece to my ff "Wings are Made To Fly", another story that deals with the aftermath of Lucrezia's historical marriage to Alfonso d'Este in Ferrara - and what might have happened had Cesare still been around to do his invading-thing. It's rather more theatrical than "Wings", however. 
> 
> Oh, and Lucrezia stabs someone.

The whispers started moving through the city about two weeks after her father died.

_Another Spaniard on the Holy Chair._

_The Borgias are in power again._

_Il Valentino is marching._

Lucrezia could feel their eyes on her when she went out, when she sat at dinner every night, the eyes of Ferrara. The eyes of her husband. She could feel the questions asked, even though nobody ever dared speak them out loud to her.

_Will this alliance hold?_

_Will her brother march on us?_

_Is she one of us?_

_Or is she still a Borgia?_

There were no children in her marriage to Alfonso, only a stillborn daughter a winter ago, even though they’d been husband and wife for almost two years now, which was another cause for disquiet among the public.

And not only among the public.

In the last few days Lucrezia’s husband had visited her rooms more frequently than he had ever done before, and she knew that the fact that her brother was invading the whole known world as it seemed, must have something to do with it. Surely Cesare would not attack Ferrara, if his sister carried a D’Este child. Surely even he wouldn’t dare.

_If you knew my brother like I know him, you would be careful to think such gullible thoughts._

But Lucrezia wisely kept her mouth shut and did her marital duty; only when her husband lay beside her, exhausted from taking her, she occasionally allowed herself a few moments to think of her brother, what he might be doing at this moment, if he might be thinking of her as well. Sometimes she envisioned him standing before Ferrara with his army, black and golden in the morning light, ready to take the city, take his sister back into his arms, and never let her go again. The thought brought a small, secret smile to her face, time and time again.

She knew, in these moments, that all her husband’s fears were justified: She didn’t belong to Ferrara, or to him. When only years ago she had looked around and wished she could run away from herself, now she could no longer understand that younger Lucrezia who had been willing to reject what she had been given so easily, to exchange it all for peace of mind. Her marriage to Alfonso d’Este had given to her what she had wished for, peace of mind, but it had also rendered her powerless; and she had understood over the last two years how foolish she had been to think that this was what she wanted.

If the same blood that ran through the veins of Il Valentino ran through hers as well, how could she have strayed so far from her nature, tried to content herself with _peace of mind_ , when she could have everything else in the world? How could she ever have rejected her life and her name and her brother and thought it would make her _happy_?

She resolved, one night, her husband’s release trickling down her thighs, his body slack beside her, to reclaim her name, her Borgia name. Reclaim Cesare and have him reclaim her. Be free again, and powerful.

Peace of mind be damned to hell.

***

It took barely a week after that before her brother came, like he had heard her calling, had received her message.

_I am ready._

She did not see him in his armour at the city walls, confined to her rooms as she was, and, ineptly, she hated her husband for robbing her of Cesare’s welcome.

Alfonso had hit her once, three days before, when it had come to his notice that Lucrezia’s brother intended to add the fair city of Ferrara to his growing empire after all, his father’s alliances be damned, his sister’s marriage be damned as well. She had looked him in the eye and reminded him that Cesare might not take kindly to this sort of treatment of his beloved sister, and Alfonso had immediately stilled his hand, badly-hidden fear in his eyes. She had silently rejoiced at the fact that the name of her brother out of her mouth could strike fear into the heart of this powerful man – but she had paid a price for putting her foot down: Alfonso d’Este had stopped regarding her as his wife and started treating her as his leverage the moment her brother’s name had left her lips. She was an enemy to him now, one he could use to his advantage, and he had demonstrated this to her very effectively by locking her away in her rooms, allowing no visitors and threatening her with death should she try to leave. Lucrezia knew that he was offering to exchange her life for his city at this very moment; and this thought, too, made her smile.

_If you knew my brother like I know him, you would not commit such insolence._

But nobody knew her brother like she did, and thus Lucrezia Borgia – not d’Este, not any more  – was the only one who knew, one night before the fact, that Ferrara would fall.

 

***

 

She awoke early to the sound of cannon fire, and she couldn’t sleep for the time it lasted. Instead she started walking up and down in her rooms like a caged tigress. Breakfast was still brought to her, like every morning, but the serving girl looked pale, deep black circles under her eyes, and her hands were shaking.

“Donatella?” Lucrezia asked when the servant was just about to leave; and the girl’s eyes widened. During her whole confinement in these rooms Lucrezia had never talked to any of those who attended her, apart from polite _Good morning_ s and _Thank you_ s. “Will you grant an imprisoned woman in a battle-torn city a favour?”

Donatella bit her lip, and Lucrezia could see the conflict of loyalty clear on her face. As much as she was technically not allowed to talk to Alfonso’s once-wife-now-prisoner, least of all grant her any favours, Lucrezia had been her lady for two years; and a good one at that, she liked to believe.

“I would ask you for a knife from the kitchens. If my brother is coming for me…” She managed to put a small tremble into her words. “To take me away from my city and sell me to the highest bidder, I would want to defend myself. And…” She put a shaking hand on her stomach. “My child.”

Donatella believed her. Lucrezia could see it in her softening expression. And why should she not? In this hour of fear and dread, when everyone feared Il Valentino might take the city of Ferrara, why should she not believe that his sister was as afraid of him as everybody else? His sister, pregnant with a d’Este child of all things. She had lived in the city of Ferrara long enough to love it, hadn’t she? She had done good deeds for its people. Maybe Alfonso was wrong? Maybe the Lady Lucrezia had been imprisoned for no reason at all?

 _People believe what they want to believe, don’t they?_ Lucrezia thought to herself, when Donatella returned with a sharpened silver knife and a deep curtsy.

“May God protect you, my Lady Lucrezia,” she said, in a small voice; and Lucrezia thanked her and gave her a golden bracelet from her treasure chest as a keepsake, then asked her to leave the city lest it fell.

After that she readied herself. She did not ask for a chambermaid and picked her clothing out in silence on her own, while cannon fire still echoed from the walls outside. Her choice fell on a red dress, made of silk, with pearls sown into the neckline, and after the long struggle of putting it on all by herself, she brushed her hair into a golden waterfall on her shoulders, decorated only with two small ruby pins. At last she tested the silver knife on her finger and smiled when a drop of blood formed on the tip of her thumb. Shoving it into the sleeve of her dress she realised that the cannon fire outside had stopped.

A small sliver of fear settled in her heart, as she listened to the silence for three, four deafening minutes.

_Will you promise to take care of yourself, brother?_

Then the sound of hooves came through the streets. Men were screaming. The city was being taken by force; and wild anticipation flooded Lucrezia’s stomach.

 

***

 

Almost two more hours passed until the sound of fighting and screaming started in the castle as well, moving through the corridors. Lucrezia knew that the Castello Estense was not easy to take – when the D’Este had built it they had placed value on old-fashioned, yet prudent things like moats, arrow slits and cannon posts; but Cesare would not be Cesare had he not considered this. She could only assume, of course, but she reckoned that he might have had a man on the inside of the Castello for a while, maybe ever since she had been married to Alfonso. Just in case.

_As much as the d’Este might have wanted to believe me Helen, I was the Trojan Horse all along. And now they will lose their city to my people._

Heavy footsteps fell in the corridor outside, coming towards her door at a fast tempo.

“OPEN IT,” she heard her husband’s hectic voice, then the rattling of a key, the click of a lock. She grabbed the hilt of her knife through the silk for reassurance, then rose from her chair, just as Alfonso entered the room in full armour, stripping the cut-through rests of gloves from his hands, his face streaked with blood, his eyes burning green. She had hardly said the word “husband”, when he’d already grabbed her around the waist and put a dagger to her throat, scratching the soft skin.

“Borgia,” he said with bitterness. “I should kill you right here. But you will ensure my safe passage.”

Lucrezia held still and said nothing while he kept her pressed to his body. The warm silver at her wrist was singing for blood, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

More footsteps from outside, quick and lithe, and then _he_ was there. Not in silver, not in gold, but in black and leather armour, two fresh cuts on his beautiful face, his long hair tied, out of his eyes, his hand and sword drenched in blood; and Lucrezia could finally breathe again.

Where Alfonso’s eyes had been filled with heat and anger, Cesare’s were calm, dark and deceivingly serene; and a sob of relief wrested itself from Lucrezia’s throat. For a small moment her brother looked only at her, and the expression in his eyes changed, a minuscule shift that told her everything she needed to know. _I will kill him for doing this to you, my love. I only need a moment more to figure out the “how”._

Her husband, of course, misconstrued their shared look as one of fear and hesitation; and he started laughing, somewhat mirthlessly, the dagger pressing heavier against Lucrezia’s throat, leaving a burning pain behind, followed by a hot rivulet of bloody droplets down her neck.

“She is still my wife,” he said, over her head. “She could be carrying my child. Have you thought of that, Borgia?”

“And still you would kill her,” Cesare gave back, carefully controlled rage in his voice. “To ensure your own safety. What a caring family man you are.”

“You would do the same. You have done the same. Everybody knows of your brother.”

“I would happily die for my family.”

“And you will, one day. But I think, at this moment, it is more likely that your family will die for you.” He wrenched Lucrezia around, walking them both towards the exit. Cesare let him come closer for a while, watching.

“I would also kill for my family,” he reminded Alfonso, casually. “In fact, I have.” With an almost laid-back ease he stepped forward, blocking Alfonso’s path. “Would you risk it?”

Alfonso’s voice sounded strained. “Would you risk me killing your sister?”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Lucrezia let the hidden blade slide down her forearm and into her hand.

“No,” Cesare said, still staring Alfonso down, not letting him pass.

“Then, my Lord, you should let me go.”

She gripped the hilt of her knife, angling it. Her husband was way too involved in his dispute with Cesare to pay any attention to her, but he was also fully armed. She would have to find a weak spot.

“I shall not,” Cesare retorted, raising his eyebrows.  
“You are risking your sister’s life.”

The blade at her throat cut a little deeper, but Lucrezia ignored the pain. An obvious solution had just come to her mind. She prepared herself.

“I’m risking nothing, d’Este.” Cesare cocked his head with a small smile. “She’s a Borgia. Underestimating her was a mistake.”

The moment her husband looked down at her it was already too late. Her knife came up with full force, nicking the hand that held the dagger to her throat. The weapon fell to the floor with a clatter, and her husband’s surprise gave her a moment to free herself of his grip. Cesare, who had seen this coming, _of course he had_ , was already there, pulling her in to stand beside him, a millisecond before the tip of his sword touched Alfonso’s throat.

“On your knees,” he said, his voice clear and sharp like the steel he was holding.

“Never,” Alfonso retorted. “Never in this lifetime.”

Cesare sighed, like he had heard these words too often, like they exhausted him, and with a swift motion he pushed his sword through Alfonso’s throat.

Lucrezia watched the surprise on his face, watched the rivers of blood spill over her brother’s blade when he pulled it out, watched Alfonso tumble to the floor, his life leaving him in showers of red, watched until he lay motionless. Then, only then, did she turn to Cesare.

“Did you come for Ferrara, brother? Or did you come for me?”

He looked at her, for a second, the darkness in his eyes mixed with tenderness, then threw his sullied sword to the ground and pulled her into an embrace so fierce and full of emotion that it brought tears to Lucrezia’s eyes. They were both crying by the time their mouths came together in a kiss, a kiss that finally made her feel wholly like herself again.

“What would Ferrara be to me, my love,” Cesare whispered, stroking her hair. “What would Italy be to me. Without you.”

She rested her face at his neck, breathed in the scent of sweat and battle and blood and revelled in the sensation of Cesare’s body against her own, after all this time that had felt like an eternity.

“Are we safe, Cesare?”

“We are, my love. For now, we are.”

 

***

 

There was no more father, no more husband holding her back. No more shackles. They had all turned to dust or been cut off by her brother’s blade.

She had no more expectations to fulfil but her own.

Soon enough Milan fell to Cesare, as did the rest of the North. Soon enough he was emperor of half of Italy. Soon enough he would be emperor of all of Italy.

Lucrezia returned to Rome, her city, the city she had hated and loved and never truly let go, but it was a different Rome now, because in this Rome she was free.


End file.
